


Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

by lachatblanche



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Violence, POV First Person, off-screen non-con, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3824215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lachatblanche/pseuds/lachatblanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The first time I see him is when he’s brought in, bruised and bloody and trussed up like a pig."</p><p>A Mob AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

The first time I see him is when he’s brought in, bruised and bloody and trussed up like a pig. There is a bruise under his cheek, a purple swelling that contrasts sweetly with the paleness of his skin. He’s gagged and blindfolded, but the noises that spill out through the gag make it obvious that the kid doesn’t take kindly to being hog-tied and bundled about.

Not so surprising, really. Creed’s a vicious sonofabitch even without a rope in his hands and I seriously doubt that he cared two bits about the kid’s comfort when he was tying those knots.

The kid writhes on the floor like some sort of eel, twisting his head back and forth as if he could see through that blindfold round his head. He can’t, of course. We’ve been doing this for too long to be caught out by rookie mistakes like that. 

He still tries though. Can’t say I blame him. I watch him struggle, twisting his head this way and that, and I idly wonder what colour his eyes would be if I were to rip that blindfold off him. Blue or brown or perhaps grey … it hardly matters, but playing guessing games is better than imagining what dumb thing the kid did that brought him here into this particular building with these particular men.

I probably ought to find out.

‘Who’s this?’ I ask, glancing over at Azazel, who looks far too pleased with himself.

Az doesn’t say anything at first but I keep staring at him so eventually he turns and grunts, ‘Marko’, in his rough, guttural accented voice, before turning his eyes back on the kid. Clearly he thinks he answered the question, and knowing him, he’s not going to say anything more. I _know_ Marko, though, and the kid lying there on the floor? Definitely not him.

Still, I take a moment to consider this new piece of information. It might not be much but that one word tells me plenty.

Ah, Marko. Kurt fucking Marko. If ever there was a worthless piece of shit on this earth then it’s Kurt Marko. I may be no saint, and sure, I’ve done a few things that I’m not proud of, but hell – even I’ve got standards. I’ve never understood why Shaw deals with that piece of shit – but then again the bastard always did have a strange sense of humour.

Not that _that’s_ the first thing a guy would say about Sebastian Shaw. I doubt that Marko was thinking about Shaw’s funny bones when Az and Vic turned up at his door, asking where the money for last month’s shipment was. 

I’m starting to wonder what did go down at that meeting though. Normally I couldn’t give a damn about Marko and his money troubles – the man looks like a pig and acts like a pig, so it’s only fair to see him sweat like one. This though … this situation here has got me seven kinds of curious. 

‘This Marko’s kid?’ I ask, pushing my luck. Az ain’t a big talker, see, and normally I’m not either but there’s something that just doesn’t fit here. Marko’s a great, hulking piece of meat, and this kid – well.

Az lets out a snort at that. ‘Step-kid,’ he says shortly, casting an amused glance down at his captive, his mind clearly following my same line of thought.

And, well – that makes sense. Not just the fact that the kid looks as much like Marko as a kitten does to a whale, but also the fact that he’s here at all. A scumbag like Marko probably wouldn’t think twice about handing over his own step-kid to a guy like Shaw if it would save his own shitty skin. It’s not the first time it’s happened and it damn sure won’t be the last.

Still, I can’t help prying further. ‘How long we keeping him for?’ I ask carelessly, trying to hide my interest.

‘What’s it to you, Lehnsherr?’ Creed sneers immediately. As usual, everyone ignores him. 

Az just shrugs. ‘As long as the boss wants,’ he says before turning away and pulling out a cigar. And just like that the conversation’s over.

I turn my attention back to the kid. It’s not like there’s anything else worth looking at, and the less time spent staring at Victor Creed’s ugly mug, the better. 

He’s pretty, is the first thing I notice. Even with the blindfold on. The kid’s _pretty_ and so damn out of place in this cramped little room in the middle of nowhere that it would almost be funny if we didn’t all know what we were here for. 

Pretty things never last for long, see. Not around here. 

He holds himself still, almost as if he knows – as if he can _feel_ – my eyes upon him. He’s tense (and you can hardly blame him) but his back is straight and his mouth – his pretty, red mouth – is set in a firm line.

I can’t help it – I’m impressed. Most guys, see, they get hauled in and they either break down or they get spitting mad, but this one – and I almost smile when I see it – this one is damn well _indignant_.

‘Take the blindfold off,’ I say casually, leaning against the wall and looking in. Just for a look, that’s all. It’s not like it’ll make any difference, anyway.

The guys look towards Az, who shrugs. ‘Go ahead,’ he says simply, looking like he doesn’t give a damn. He probably doesn’t. Az didn’t get this far by caring about things. None of us did, really.

One of the rat-faced goons steps forward and I watch as he stops behind the kid, who goes rigid at the sensation of someone at his back. There’s nothing that he can do about it, though, so he just holds still. Smart boy.

The blindfold is pulled off. There is some dazed blinking – and I know from experience just how hard that first light hits you – but that doesn’t last long. The kid looks up at us with wide eyes – wide blue eyes, I should have known they’d be blue – and really, I have to hand it to him. He looks nervous, sure, but then being beat up and hog-tied by a couple of ugly mugs like Az and Victor is bound to shake you up a little. But unlike most of the guys who we bring in like this, he doesn’t huddle and cower away when he sees us. Maybe he doesn’t know who we are, maybe he doesn’t have the brains to know when he ought to be scared ... or maybe the kid actually has some guts to him.

He doesn’t say anything, either. Most guys, they try to talk or cry or plead or something, never mind that there’s a _reason_ that we keep them gagged. This kid though – he just sits there, looking at us, not saying a word.

I’ve seen bigger men than him crumble right at about this point. The boy doesn’t even twitch. 

Like I said – kid’s got guts.

Not everyone seems to be that impressed, though.

‘Where’d you pick him up, day-care?’ Stryker says with a snort, giving him a once-over. ‘Kid looks about twelve.’

The boy’s nostrils actually flare at that. Looks like this isn’t the first time he’s had digs about his looks.

Az just shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says, his accent thick. ‘College.’

‘Yeah,’ Victor agrees, sounding all kinds of satisfied. ‘Caught him coming off the field.’ His grin widens and the kid’s smart enough to start looking wary. ‘Seems our boy’s quite the runner.’

‘That right?’ I ask after a beat. Victor’s obviously looking for someone to say _something_ , and what can I say? I’m curious.

‘Hmm,’ Creed’s teeth gleam. This close they look like fangs. ‘Bet he’s real fast,’ he murmurs, eyeing the kid speculatively. ‘Like a little jackrabbit.’

His tone makes me antsy. I ignore the feeling as best I can. That way lies trouble, and quite frankly that’s something I can do without.

‘Yeah,’ Creed continues, his eyes not leaving the kid. ‘Bet those legs go nice and fast. Maybe we should see how quick they go.’ His smile widens and he leers at the kid. ‘Whaddya say, kid?’ he asks, looming close and grinning wolfishly at the boy. ‘Think you could make it out of here before I put a bullet in your kneecap?’

The kid obviously knows that he’d never make it out of here even if Victor played fair – which he won’t – and the disdainful expression on his face says as much. He doesn’t even glance towards the door to check its position; instead, his nostrils flare and his eyebrows rise condescendingly, and—

 _Oh_ , I think. I like this one. 

Victor, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be all that enamoured with him. ‘That’s how it is, is it?’ he snarls, his eyes narrowing at the look of disdain that the kid sends his way. ‘You think you’re better than me, is that it?’

Az and I exchange a look. It’s no secret that Creed has something of an inferiority complex that makes itself known every now and then. The way I hear it, he always played second fiddle to his brother, who got all the attention and respect in the family. That doesn’t really surprise me, to be honest. His brother probably got all the brains, too. 

‘Well,’ Creed is saying when I turn back to him, standing huge and imposing over our captive, an ugly sneer on his already ugly face, ‘you’re going to regret thinking like that soon enough.’ He grins, large and wide and vicious. ‘We’ll see just how high and mighty you are when I’m done with you.’ And with that, Creed is reaching out, his meaty hands hooked and dangerous and all wrong for the kid’s delicate skin.

I am seconds away from intervening – don’t ask me why, it’s probably just out of pity for whatever poor bastard Creed turns his eye on – but before I can do anything, Azazel is there, blocking Creed’s way.

‘ _Nyet_ ,’ he says coolly, shaking his head at him. 

_No_. I frown at that and raise my eyebrow at Az, who just gives us a wry look. ‘Shaw,’ he grunts out, and there is a snort from the guys around me. We all know what that means.

Victor slowly retracts his hand, grimacing. The boy may be pretty but he ain’t worth crossing Shaw for. 

I find myself releasing the breath I’d been holding. There’ll be no blood spilled tonight – well, no _more_ blood spilled. The kid ought to be thankful: he’s dodged a bullet there. I’ve been around Creed long enough to know that his looks ain’t the only animal-like thing about him.

Still, I think, it’s a pity. Because the moment Shaw gets his dirty hands on him, the boy is going to be _ruined_.

Most thugs on that sort of level have their molls and their whores; Shaw, on the other hand, has his boys. Pretty little things they are, all pale and delicate and frail. Looking at Blue Eyes here, I can see how Shaw might find him appealing – he _is_ pretty, and he _is_ pale – but there is nothing about him that is delicate or frail. The arch of his neck, maybe, or the turn of his wrist, perhaps … but I’ve made a living out of reading men and knowing what’s inside them and let me tell you that in this kid? Well, right at the heart of him – right where it counts most in a man – you can see that this one has a core of iron. 

No, I think as I turn and walk straight out of the room, leaving before Shaw can arrive and claim his prize. Not delicate and not frail. Not even a little bit. 

And damn if it doesn’t make him all the more delicious.

*****

The first time it happens I don’t think either one of us was expecting it.

It’d been a week or two since the kid was hauled in and, if I’m honest, I hadn’t really thought all that much about him since then – at least during the day. Self-preservation, see? Anyway, on that particular day I’m walking down the corridor, wanting to see the Boss so I can tell him how the meeting with Frost’s people went, but when I turn the corridor, there, standing in front of Shaw’s closed office door, is no one but the kid.

I pause then, surprised, and just watch him.

He’s standing very still, right there in the middle of the corridor, his head bowed and his back hunched over. His hand is at his face and I figure out why a moment later when he straightens up and drops his arm, showing a newly-formed, deep purple bruise at the side of his cheek.

It suits him, I find myself thinking as I watch him. Which is a pity, really. Shaw would be a lot easier on him if he didn’t bruise so sweetly. 

Then again, maybe Shaw wouldn’t have wanted him if he didn’t.

It’s at that point that the kid glances up and, I have to hand it to him, he doesn’t even flinch at the sight of me, standing there watching him from out of the shadows.

Instead, he grimaces. ‘He hit me,’ he says. It’s not whiny or even bewildered. It’s just a plain statement of fact.

‘So I can see,’ I say after a moment, taking a step forward. Then, because I can’t seem to contain my curiosity around him for more than a second, I ask, ‘Does he do that a lot?’

The kid seems to consider the question for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he says at last. No more than that.

I watch him for a minute. Then I turn around. ‘Follow me,’ I tell him, and start to walk away.

To his credit, the kid only hesitates for a second before following.

‘Where are we going?’ he asks, and hell if he doesn’t sound more curious than scared. Like I said before – the kid’s got guts.

I don’t answer him. He’ll see soon enough.

We head downwards, down a set of stairs and into the cellar. The kid clearly hasn’t been down here before, but then again neither have most of the guys that I work with.

‘This is the basement?’ he asks, glancing curiously at the dusty crates and boxes that line the floors.

I grunt in reply and, leading him forwards, walk to the far end of the cellar. There, as the kid watches, I grasp hold of a lid and pull it upwards to reveal an icebox. 

‘Oh,’ the kid stares for a moment, looking rather dumbly at the ice.

Sighing, I pull off my shirt even as he watches and, reaching forward, scoop some ice into it. 

‘Here,’ I say, handing over the shirt. ‘It’ll help with the …’ I gesture at his face and slowly, ever so slowly, he reaches out and takes hold of the shirt.

‘Thank you,’ he says quietly, looking me in the eye, before slowly, gingerly pressing the shirt against his bruised jaw.

He hisses at the sensation, his eyes fluttering shut for the barest moment, before his eyes suddenly fly open again and then he is staring at me, his eyes cool and unblinking and boring into me, even as I look back, unable to do anything but meet his gaze.

‘Why are you here?’ he asks, cool as you like, as if we’re sat together in some sort of bar and not alone in the basement of a building belonging to the guy who just smacked the holy hell out of him.

I shrug. ‘You needed the ice,’ I say. I know that’s not what he’s asking, of course, and he knows that I know it.

‘Why are you here?’ he asks again, just as firmly.

I shrug again. ‘I haven’t got anywhere else to be,’ I say. It’s true enough. The report on Frost can wait. I seriously doubt that reporting back with news that she’s a Class A bitch is all that urgent.

He nods at that, pressing the ice against his jaw. ‘Do you want to ask me why _I’m_ here?’ he says after a moment. I pause at that, wondering how to answer that one, but then his lips twist upwards and he _smiles_ – and it’s hard and it’s dark and painful, but it’s still a fucking _smile_ , as if it’s all one big joke, and this kid – well, I realise right then and there, this kid really is something.

‘Do you need more ice?’ I ask instead, not knowing what else to say.

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘But the keys to your car and a way out of here would be nice, if you could manage it,’ and his voice is light and he sounds like he’s joking, but his voice breaks on the last word and I can _see_ the desperation clawing at him and he looks like he’s seconds away from cracking up and—

‘Don’t,’ I say, and I’ve no idea why I said it, but he seems to understand because suddenly his eyes are on me and they are sharp and in focus and maybe even a tiny bit relieved. We stay like that, just looking at each other.

And then his mouth parts slightly, as if he might say something, and my eyes dip down, almost without my consent.

Our eyes meet again.

The crash of his lips on mine takes me by surprise, but only for a second, and then I’m pulling back. I’m tempted, sure, but there’s about a hundred different reasons why I shouldn’t give into this and only one reason why I should and, as far as logic is concerned, it’s barely a reason at all. But then I make the dumb mistake of looking at the kid, and I can see the desperation on his face and the need in his eyes and I realise that this ain’t really about me at all, and well, I never could resist a pretty pair of eyes.

He watches me for a moment, still and serious, biting those red lips of his. And then he’s on me again, kissing me, and then I’m pushing back, fast and hungry and brutal and _fuck_ the consequences because it’s just the once and he needs this and I want this and no one will ever be the wiser.

Well, that’s what they all say, isn’t it?

It’s fast and it’s rough and I’m not even sure either of us really enjoys it. But there it is and at the end of it we’re both just as lost and alone as we were at the start, and this has only made things about a hundred times worse, but I don’t think that either one of us really cares all that much about that.

He’s the first one to leave; he nods at me, a little stiffly, and then he’s gone, up the stairs and out of the room.

I wait for a minute, holding the wet, sodden shirt he pushed back into my hand before he left, and then I follow him out, my eyes on my feet as I climb up the stairs.

Just the once, I tell myself. Just the once.

*****

The second time it happens is just as screwy as the first.

We’d been avoiding each other since it happened. Not that we saw each other all that much before that, but even so, we now seemed to see even less of each other than before. I didn’t want to see him and he sure as hell didn’t want to see me, and that suited the both of us just fine.

… But then one day I find him walking towards the stairs to the cellar, a fresh shiny bruise on his left cheekbone and his shoulders hunched and tight and miserable, and then suddenly I’m following him, walking down those dark narrow stairs to the basement and then I’m there, and he’s turning around, and his eyes are wide and then – and then – and then …

We end up rutting against each other, fast and rough and angry, and we’re both being selfish here, we’re both just out for ourselves, taking it however we damn well want, and _fuck_ if that doesn’t make it all the more satisfying. 

He curses a lot when screwing. I like it.

‘Fuck,’ he swears, shoving against me, and his anger – ‘cause it _is_ anger, though I’m damned if I know which of us it’s aimed at – sends a shudder of lust through me and I have to close my eyes against it, so I don’t lose myself to it.

What about Shaw, I find myself wondering as I squeeze my eyes shut. Does he do it like this with Shaw? Does he curse like this when he’s with him? Does Shaw like it as much as I do?

‘Fuck you,’ the kid snarls the moment I voice the thought out loud and then I’m grinning – laughing because no, _of course_ he doesn’t, not with _him_ , not with Shaw, what the hell was I thinking.

We finish with a muffled curse and after that it’s just like the last time – he doesn’t look at me and I don’t say a thing to him. He leaves first and then I follow out after.

The only difference now is that this time I don’t lie to myself at the end of it.

*****

The fourth time it happens things change between us.

The house is mostly empty: Shaw’s gone off to the Trask meeting with the others, leaving only a handful of us back here, and I’m stuck here with those dumb bastards, still recovering from a bullet to the shoulder that I got the week before. ‘I won’t have you bleeding all over Trask, Erik,’ Shaw’d said before he left, the condescending _bastard_ – never mind that it’s his damn fault that I got this way in the first place.

That’s not what I’m thinking about, though, as I lie there in my room. There are better things to think about, I find.

 _He_ , of course, is still here. Where else could he go? He’s tried escaping a couple o’ times – of course he has. Those scars are the worst. Shaw makes sure they’re not the kind that fade easily. 

He hasn’t asked me to help him escape – at least, not yet he hasn’t – which I appreciate more than I can say. I mean, it would be all kinds of embarrassing when I’d say no and I’ve really got no patience for awkwardness. 

The kid’s smart, though – he knows the deal. I know he won’t ask and he knows I won’t give. It works for us.

I’m not thinking about all that just then, though. Not with _him_ here, in my room, in my bed, lying there next to me.

He’s naked, this time. We both are, now that we have the luxury of it. 

That’s not the only change since the first few times. 

Before it was just frantic rutting in the corner of a shadowy basement, something dark and quick and hurried that we were both just as eager to be done with as we were to start it. This time it’s different – we’re not grappling with each other up against a wall, for a start, and it’s slower and unhurried and _intimate_ somehow, in a way that it’s really not supposed to be between us, because that’s not what this is.

If I were thinking straight I might actually figure out that it’s time to cut my losses and get the heck out of whatever this is. Unfortunately, I seem to have left my brains behind with my shirt, ‘cause that thought ain’t anywhere near my mind at the present time.

We lie there, after, the two of us breathing heavily and not saying anything. To be fair, there’s never a lot of talking that goes on between us but this time he didn’t even curse. 

I almost miss it.

The silence isn’t all that uncomfortable, at least at first. We’re both quiet, not looking at each other, and before I know it my eyes are closing and I’m drifting and then –

And then he speaks.

‘I don’t know how much longer I can take this.’

I open my eyes.

‘I try,’ he continues. His tone is calm, like he’s carrying on a fucking normal conversation, and when I turn to look at him he looks unaffected and almost detached, as if none of it’s touching him. ‘And it’s alright for the most part, but – but it wears on me.’

I sigh then, realising that he’s not going to clam up about this any time soon, and, leaning over, I grab hold of my cigarette case and pull one out and light it.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he says calmly the moment I turn back to him. His eyes are fixed on me, cool and blue and unflinching. ‘But this isn’t leading anywhere. I’m not about to ask anything from you. I just—’ he hesitates then, and takes a deep breath. ‘I just need to say something. I know it won’t make a difference, but – I just need to let it out.’

I turn to him then, and look at him. He appears strangely vulnerable, even wrapped in a blanket as he is. I watch him for a moment, not saying anything. Then, reluctantly, I dip my head in the barest indication of a nod. 

That opens the floodgates. I sit there and listen – I don’t know how long for – but I sit there and listen to every word that comes tumbling out, like he can’t stop them now that he’s begun. 

He tells me about Marko – junior and senior – and how he’d only found out what they truly were after his mother had remarried; how he’d been abducted from the running field before he’d even managed to get started on that evening’s run; how he feels Victor Creed’s gaze on him even now, hungry and vicious; how Shaw’s touch on his skin makes him shudder each and every time they’re together; how he feels hate and anger and despair grow inside him as he had never felt before, and how _helpless_ he feels at all of it.

When he at last finishes, he looks deflated … empty, almost.

‘I hate this place,’ he whispers, his eyes dull as he gazes blankly at the wall. ‘I hate everyone in it. Shaw and Creed and Azazel and—’

‘And me?’ I ask, bringing my cigarette to my lips. It’s the first time I’ve spoken in what feels like an hour.

He doesn’t answer.

When I turn towards him I find his back facing me, the covers pulled up tight over his shoulders and his head angled away.

We don’t speak again for the rest of the night.

*****

‘I’m not Shaw,’ I tell him the ninth or tenth or eleventh time after, as we lie entwined together on the cooling sheets of my bed. Things have progressed since those first furtive encounters in the basement.

He says nothing. 

‘I’m not Shaw,’ I say again, more forcefully this time, because he needs to hear this before it’s too late and before he starts getting _ideas_. ‘But that doesn’t mean that I’m a good guy. I’m not. I never have been and I never will be.’

He still doesn’t say anything. 

‘I’m just saying,’ I continue, feeling the need to really push this for some reason. ‘Don’t think that I’m suddenly a good person now. Don’t start thinking that I’m not one of these guys, like Az or Creed or Shaw, because I _am_.’ I lean forward and meet his gaze. ‘Don’t expect me to change just because of – because of _this_ ,’ I say quietly. ‘Because I won’t.’

He turns to me then, all soft skin and wide, serious eyes and he studies me for a moment, his gaze intent. Then, moving slowly, as if I am made of glass or china or clay, he reaches out and places a delicate hand on my cheek.

‘Oh Erik,’ he says quietly, and his expression is almost sad. ‘You already have.’

And he kisses me.

*****

The next time we meet things aren’t so pretty. I can tell by the swelling of his jaw that Shaw’s been at him again, and this time he really let loose. His lip is split, there are bruises down the side of his face – and I’ve been socked in the mug more than enough times to know that his lips aren’t swollen ‘cause he’s been kissed too hard.

Hell, I’ve kissed him enough times to know what he looks like when he’s been kissed too hard.

‘Rough night?’ I ask him casually; I know how he gets when I pry and the kid’s probably hurting enough already without knowing how much the sight of him makes me want to take a knife to every single one of those fingers that dared to touch him like that.

He gives me a wry smile at that but it only gets halfway there before the cut in his lip puts a stop to it. And if I wasn’t mad before then that would have pushed me all the way there, ‘cause anything that stops the kid smiling needs to be wiped off the face of the fucking universe as far as I’m concerned.

I find that I want to tell him that. 

I want to let him know how much I hate to see him here everyday when he deserves so much better than this crummy life. I want to tell him that everything’s okay, that he doesn’t need to worry because I’m going to take care of him from now on. I want to tell him that Shaw is a scumbag, and that he deserves to have a bullet put right between his eyes in the centre of his head … 

But I don’t. 

Because Shaw is who he is, and I am who I am, and I know that whatever I may think of what’s happening, there’s not a single damn thing that I can do about any of it.

‘Come on,’ I tell him instead, taking him gently by the arm. ‘Let’s get you fixed up.’

And he smiles at me at that, like he heard every single one of those crazy, impossible things that I was too much of a coward to offer him, and he takes my hand and he follows.

*****

The last time I see him there’s a bruise across his cheek, but he’s standing tall and proud, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

‘This is dangerous,’ he says quietly, his eyes dark and serious and intense. ‘You should leave now, while you have the chance.’

I don’t say anything to that. We both know that I’m not going to leave. Not until he’s gone and is far, far away from me, Shaw, and all the goddamn hurt that he’s come to at our hands. And as for it being dangerous … well. We crossed that bridge a long time ago.

‘Just get on your train,’ is all I say, and I’m almost surprised by how calm I sound, as if this doesn’t affect me at all. ‘That’s all you need to worry about.’

‘But what about you?’ he insists, and that’s just him all over, worrying about me like that. ‘You can’t just go back to the way things were. You know you can’t.’

‘Can’t I?’ I can’t bring myself to sound too upset by that. Things have changed for me, since Xavier walked – since he was _thrown_ – into my life, but I’ve a feeling that this change was a long time coming. Charles was just the catalyst, that’s all. Some things just needed to be done, and now was the time to do it. ‘Well, I’ll just have to see how things work out, then, won’t I?’

‘But he’ll _kill_ you,’ Charles whispers, and it gets to me, the way he looks genuinely pained at the idea. ‘If he finds out about us then he’ll _kill_ you.’

I shrug. ‘We’ll see,’ I say, non-committal, and I can tell by the darkening of his expression that it’s not an answer that he finds acceptable.

‘Come with me,’ he says abruptly, and I confess that I find myself surprised by the idea. Not that I hadn’t considered it, of course – I’m just surprised that _he_ did. If I were in his place I would want to be free from every single thing associated with this place. Poor kid really must be worried about me. ‘Just – let’s go. The both of us. Right now.’

I watch him for a moment and then shake my head. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea,’ I tell him evenly, forcing myself to shrug and remain calm instead of reaching out to take his hand like I so badly want to. ‘My staying here is better for everyone. It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Besides,’ I add, trying to soothe his anxious expression. ‘Shaw would definitely know I was involved if we both went missing and he wouldn’t stop until he found us and killed us both. This way, I can stay and make sure he doesn’t find you.’

The murmurs on the platform are starting to get louder now, as people hurry to get on the train and stow themselves away. Charles doesn’t so much as glance at bustle around him, though. His eyes are trained wholly on me.

I feel my breath catch, and I don’t know why.

Charles’s eyes don’t move away from me. ‘Why are you here?’ he asks softly, an echo of the very first time we were together, watching me with barely suppressed worry and distress. ‘Why are you even helping me?’

I laugh at that because, well, if he doesn’t know by now then he never will.

‘I guess I’m just a sucker for a pair of pretty blue eyes,’ I say, shrugging, trying to keep things light, because if the water-works start now I’ve got a feeling they’ll never stop.

Charles just looks at me for a moment and in those few seconds it’s like the whole world passes between us and I can see it there, I can see it, that he understands, that he _knows_.

He doesn’t say anything though.

Just a quiet, ‘Thank you,’ and a last, brief kiss on the lips and then he’s gone, disappearing in a wave of smoke, gone like he was never there to begin with.

It would be better for the both of us if that were true.

Slowly, I turn away from the station and begin to walk back home. It’s probably time to break out that bottle I’ve been hoarding away for a special occasion, I think. 

It’s not like I’ll have another chance after this.

*****

‘Why?’ Shaw asks simply, later when everything’s gone to shit just like I knew it would the moment I set eyes on Charles in that fucking storage room. Just one question. _Why_.

I grin at him, even though it hurts to do that much, blood turning my teeth red. ‘Because I’m a sucker for a pair of pretty blue eyes,’ I say, and then spit in his face.

*****

It’s hours later, and how the hell I’m still alive is a mystery to me. Hell, it’s probably a mystery to them, too.

Lord knows that I can take a beating. Especially if the motivation is right. Shaw made sure of that long ago.

The knocks keep coming but they’re more routine now: they’ve lost the ingenuity and enthusiasm of an hour ago. No one’s even bothering to ask me questions any more. If it were up to them they would have put a bullet in my head by now, finished me off. The only reason I’m still moving is because Shaw prefers it that way. For now, at least.

‘You know,’ he says, regarding me coolly from the other side of the room as Creed knocks my face in. ‘I can’t help but be really disappointed in you, Erik. I always had a soft spot for you, my boy, but you _know_ what happens to people who steal from me. Really, this is the least that you deserve.’

I don’t answer. It’s kinda difficult to speak when you’re getting a fist in your face every two seconds. 

‘Not that I blame you entirely, of course,’ Shaw goes on. He really does enjoy hearing himself speak. ‘Charles really is the prettiest thing, isn’t he? Fiery, too. I know that must have appealed to you, Erik. You always did have an eye for the spitfires.’

Considering that I have never shown even an ounce of interest towards anyone when in Shaw’s presence, that’s actually a bit of a reach. He’s right, though. Shaw may have preferred his boys dumb and insipid, but if you ask me there’s no point in having a pretty face if you haven’t got anything behind it.

I move my mouth but no words come out. Shaw notices and holds his hand up, temporarily pausing the onslaught.

‘What’s that, my boy?’ he asks solicitously.

I take a moment, allowing the blood to dribble down from my mouth and then I turn to him. ‘Kill me already,’ I slur, trying to keep my head from falling forward. Anything so I don’t have to hear more of Shaw’s blather.

‘Are you so eager to die, Erik?’ Shaw looks almost disappointed. ‘I’m very sorry to hear it.’ He sighs, turning to Creed – because of course it’s Creed who’s dishing out the punches – and he waves a hand, dismissing him. Creed nods at that and, with one last sneer, turns and leaves the room.

I summon up the strength to raise my neck and look around me. We are alone now, me and Shaw, and that’s about all I’m able to see before my eyes go blurry and I drop my head back down to my chest. 

‘Oh, Erik,’ Shaw says softly. ‘You had so much promise. You could have gone so far. But then you betrayed me. You had to throw it all away – and for what? Nothing that you couldn’t pick up down an alley for the right price.’ He shook his head. ‘You made a bad choice, son. You should have stuck to the alleys. Maybe then the price wouldn’t have been so high.’ He raised his arm and, even through the blur of dwindling vision, I could make out that he had a gun in his hand. ‘Goodbye, Erik.’ He almost sounded sad at that. ‘I’m sorry it had to be this way.’

As my vision grew dark, I saw his finger settled on the trigger.

 _Charles_ , I thought, my eyelids fluttering shut.

Then there was a _bang_ and everything went dark.

*****

It was a long time before I was back on my feet after that. Agent MacTaggert visited me a lot, during that time. She may be a copper, but I have to hand it to her – she’s not half bad.

Not that I’m all that surprised, considering she’s a friend of Charles.

He’d given me her name, right before he left. ‘Call her,’ he’d said, and, well, it’s not like I had anything better in mind. So I called her the moment I got back from seeing Charles off and told her what was happening. Turns out, she’s been on the lookout for Charles ever since he went missing. His family might not have given a damn, but his friends sure did and, as luck would have it, Agent MacTaggert had the resources to help things along.

Luckily for me, she moved them along quick.

From what we’ve managed to put together, I blacked out right at the moment that the cops busted in, saving my neck. Shaw never had the chance to pull the trigger; he was taken out before he even knew what was happening.

Part of me is glad. The other half is mad as hell that I wasn’t the one to pull the trigger.

In any case, it’s all gone now. Shaw, Creed, Stryker … they’re all of them six foot deep by now, which is the best place for them. Only Azazel seems to have managed to escape the raid, but then I’m not so surprised by that: Az always did have a habit of disappearing at the right moment.

I’m the only one left, it seems. MacTaggert once asked me casually about whether I was planning on filling up the gap now that Shaw’s gone, but there’s no point. The only reason I joined Shaw in the first place was because I had no other choice; there’s no way that I’m going back to that life now that I’m finally out of it.

I may not know what happens next for me, but I know that much. 

And now MacTaggert’s offered me a job. _Consulting_ , she called it. Nothing big, mind – I don’t think she trusts me quite enough for that yet – but it’s something, and it’s honest, which is more than I can say about anything I’ve done in the last decade or two. I’d been thinking about leaving – about getting out of here and leaving all this behind – but maybe I’ll take her up on that. Might be fun, being on the other side of things for a while.

Besides – this way, he’ll know.

MacTaggert talks to him, sometimes. Sends him letters and such. She doesn’t tell me where he is – and I don’t blame her for it – but she lets me know he’s okay. He never asks about me in his letters, she says, but he knows I’m here. 

He knows I’ll still be here, if he ever decides to come back. 

Until then, I’ll live.


End file.
